


Know Thine Enemy

by Llama1412



Series: Love Shack [1]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alien Biology, Denial of Feelings, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Enemies to Lovers, Fantasizing, Fantastic Racism, Genocide, Humiliation, M/M, Non-Human Genitalia, Pre-Relationship, Pre-Slash, Racism, Recreational Drug Use, Rival Relationship, Sexual Tension, references to
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-01
Updated: 2020-08-07
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:54:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25657753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Llama1412/pseuds/Llama1412
Summary: Iorveth spends a lot of time wondering what it was about Vernon Roche that got to him. A chance encounter in the forest forces him to question if there might not be more to it than determination to outwit his enemy.
Relationships: Iorveth & The Scoia'tael, Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Series: Love Shack [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1860328
Comments: 15
Kudos: 83





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some translations:  
> Aen Seidhe = Formal name for what elves call themselves. Two types: Those who lived before the Conjunction of the Spheres brought humanity to the continent, and those born after.  
> Dùthaich is Scottish Gaelic for Homeland, according to Google Translate  
> Dh’oine = Elder Speech for Human  
> Bloede = expletive along the lines of stupid/silly/fucking i.e. Bloede Dh’oine = Fucking Human  
> Aindeoin = taken from the Scottish Gaelic word for spite, a dh ’aindeoin, according to Google.

Iorveth had spent a long time nursing his hatred for Temeria’s King. Well, for most of the Northern Kings, actually, but Temeria was special. Temeria had been his home, long before humans had named it such.

The elven name sounded better anyway. _Dùthaich_ meant homeland in the dh’oine’s tongue, and that’s what it was. An _elven_ homeland. Typical how dh’oine always forgot that their cities were built on elven ruins.

At any rate, there had been a time King Foltest was – well, not a _good_ king, dh’oine didn’t really have those. But not a particularly notable bad king. Iorveth had hated him on principle, but it was a distant hate, a vague awareness of Foltest’s existence.

Then Foltest had decided that nonhumans should be eliminated. Just for existing.

Iorveth’s hate became very personal very fast. And he used it, used it to lead his men to fight Foltest’s order and save those they could. More than that, he used his hatred to do the things he had to do, to order his men to do. Kings never gave into the Scoia’tael because they asked nicely, they gave in because they had no choice, because the Scoia’tael had made it impossible for villages to go about their regular business of paying taxes and tributes, which meant the kingdom lost money.

Kings hated losing money. Dh’oine greed in general was a frightening thing – Iorveth had seen men beat and kill others for a mere copper – but it was especially prevalent amongst kings and nobility. 

Money made Kings pay attention, made them stop ignoring the inconvenient elven uprisings and actually consider the terms the Scoia’tael proposed. Iorveth seethed; They weren’t even asking for much – all they wanted was a place where they could live without their mere existence carrying down a death sentence. Why couldn’t dh’oine understand that, understand that they were just _people,_ people who wanted to live their lives?

Instead of giving them that, Foltest doubled down his efforts in his efforts to eradicate Iorveth’s people. It was a scary thing, to know that someone cared so little about you, thought so little of you that they sentenced your entire species to death.

Foltest created a special forces unit specifically to hunt down nonhumans. Roche may claim that his orders were only to stop the Scoia’tael, but Iorveth knew better. Foltest wanted them all destroyed: the Scoia’tael, the misguided nonhumans living under human rule, even the few innocent nonhumans left. He wanted them all dead.

Iorveth wasn’t sure if he was glad that Roche didn’t appear to want the same thing or not. Vernon Roche, Commander of the Blue Stripes, was confusing. And intriguing.

And, ultimately, his enemy.

The problem was, Iorveth spent a lot of time thinking about his enemy. He thought about how to outwit Roche, how to lay traps for the Blue Stripes, and how to give his own men an advantage. More nonhumans joined them every day, driven away from human villages by the uptick of hatred and violence that no one stopped. Iorveth had a responsibility to prepare them for the reality of living as a guerrilla soldier, to prepare them to survive.

He wasn’t sure when thinking about Roche had turned into thinking about how stupid the dh’oine’s hat was or how confusing his relationship with his second in command – who, everytime Iorveth had encountered her, seemed to believe that fastening the armor clasps down her front was for other people. If one of Iorveth’s soldiers did something so stupid, he would have them stuck on latrine duty until they learned that armor was supposed to _protect_ your vulnerable spots. It didn’t do any good leaving them exposed.

But Roche never seemed concerned that his second in command walked around with her armor unfastened. The other men in his unit, from what Iorveth had observed, found the commander’s dress distracting and would often make lewd remarks, though Ves – the second in command – insulted them right back. She usually won the arguments that Iorveth saw, too, though sometimes that was purely because she’d decided it was now time for a knife throwing contest and the men quailed.

Iorveth couldn’t blame them. Ves was good with her knives. She’d nearly taken off Iorveth’s head more than once, and the feral snarl on her face had told Iorveth that she would be more than delighted to be the one to kill him.

It was different than the feral smirk Roche sometimes wore. Roche’s tended to have an energy that was more _I will be the one to catch you_ as opposed to _I want to murder you brutally._

Maybe that was why Iorveth found Roche so fascinating. The man honestly seemed to believe that their fight wasn’t about race at all, fixating on their tactics. Part of Iorveth understood – he hated ordering his men to do what they had to sometimes, but their methods _worked._ Ambushing any travelers through the forest gave the Scoia’tael a home that humans feared to invade. Stealing goods from the army gave the Scoia’tael medicine and supplies they otherwise wouldn’t be able to obtain. Burning caravans full of merchandise seemed harsh, but local governors were quick to give into their demands after they did. The Scoia’tael had some victories to truly celebrate.

Not enough of them, though. Cities enacted laws forbidding employers from refusing nonhumans work, but they weren’t enforced. There were rules that kept landlords from refusing housing to nonhumans, but that didn’t stop people from burning their houses down – often with the poor nonhumans still inside. There were even laws against hate crimes, against the brutal violence racists took comfort in. But that didn’t stop the governors and aldermen and local mayors from leading the lynchings.

Iorveth couldn’t remember what it was like to look at a dh’oine and see anything other than a threat.

Maybe that was what made Roche so interesting. The dh’oine was very much a threat – and yet, not as much of one as he could be. Roche was ruthless: ordering his men not to take prisoners in raids, torturing the few prisoners he did take for information, ignoring the way innocents sometimes became casualties of war. He was not a good man.

But he wasn’t as bad as he could have been. His predecessor had been far worse, and Iorveth wished he had been the one to slit that brute’s neck. Roche had never ordered their women raped, their babies battered and beaten, their schools and libraries set on fire.

Not that there were many of those left to set alight. 

Dol Blathanna maintained some of their cultural heritage, but only for as long as Nilfgaard permitted it. What Iorveth wanted, what he and his men fought for, was a _truly_ free elven state, where all were welcomed and treated as equals, dh’oine included. As much as Iorveth personally despised dh’oine, he had heard tales of enough decent ones to know that they weren’t all a lost cause.

Only most of them.

Iorveth didn’t know which category Vernon Roche fell into. 

He didn’t know which one he _wanted_ Roche to fall into. That was what scared him. But he couldn’t stop thinking about it, like picking at a scab, constantly wondering if Roche could be made to understand and why Iorveth even cared.

Because he did care. A lot. It wasn’t that he liked Roche – in point of fact, he was an extremely unlikeable man – but Roche’s determination to see this as a policy issue rather than a race issue both infuriated and entranced him. Iorveth felt like he _had_ to understand where Roche was coming from, because how could anyone not see the obvious?

What he really wanted, he realized one day, was to sit down and have a debate with the man. As enjoyable as crossing swords with him was – and it truly was. Iorveth had forgotten how fun fighting could be when you had a worthy opponent – what Iorveth really wanted was to _understand_ him.

Iorveth’s brethren would laugh at him if they could hear his thoughts. Who cared about understanding their enemy when they would eventually be destroyed? Anything beyond strategic information was meaningless.

And maybe it was meaningless. Learning more about Roche would do nothing to further the Scoia’tael’s cause. It wasn’t as if he could make Roche less racist or less willing to follow a genocidal maniac. 

Nonetheless, the thought stayed with him all day – the idea that he wanted to _know,_ to truly understand Vernon Roche – and it was still on his mind that evening when he was scouting with his second in command, Ciaran. Iorveth glanced at his companion with a measure of guilt. Ciaran would certainly find his interest inappropriate at best. At worst, grounds to overthrow his command. After all, how could the Scoia’tael be led by someone who fell for human excuses?

He didn’t, though. He was under no illusions that Roche was anything but a racist and that for nonhumans to survive, Foltest had to die. If Iorveth ever felt otherwise, he would step down immediately, because his people _deserved_ to be led by someone who would do anything to free them.

Of course, they probably also deserved someone who watched where he was going. When they reached the end of their patrol route, Ciaran nodded to him and headed back to the others, to play music and eat and dance with their brethren. But Iorveth wasn’t feeling up to company yet, so he kept wandering through the forest, thinking about enemies and allies and friends and the complicated way those definitions had shifted of recent. Which was no excuse for not noticing the trap before he walked right into it.

The first hint that something was wrong was the feeling of something tugging on his ankle, slowly growing tighter. The moment he looked down to check was also the moment he was yanked into the air by the rope, and his arrows fell from his quiver, scattering on the forest floor, as he dangled upside down in the air

The Elder Speech he muttered was _definitely_ not repeatable in polite company, but when was Iorveth ever in polite company, anyway? And this situation deserved his strongest curses, because it was just fucking _embarrassing_ to get caught like this. 

His clothing made a dedicated effort to fall around his ears, which was extra annoying when he was trying to bend in half so he could cut the stupid rope around his ankle. The spinning wasn’t helping either.

But the absolute _worst_ thing about this situation was the sound of crunching leaves that signaled someone approaching. Maybe a hunter, coming to check for rabbits, or – more likely – someone who would be delighted to have caught the leader of the Scoia’tael, even if it was a decidedly _temporary_ situation. One of his elves would never make so much noise, so it couldn’t be one of them.

But it _could_ be the absolute _worst_ person to possibly find him. As Iorveth tried to bat the gambeson out of his face, he caught a glimpse of none other than Vernon Roche making his way towards him. 

Iorveth swore under his breath. Of fucking course it would be Roche. That was just the way this day was going, what with him walking into a trap, getting his leg jerked into the air, and the part where the rest of him followed. It was humiliating and painful and as much as the thought of having a proper conversation with Roche had been haunting him, he did _not_ want to deal with Roche right now.

“Apparently I’ve been going about capturing Scoia’tael all wrong,” Roche laughed at him and Iorveth chucked his bow at the human. It wouldn’t do him much good without his arrows anyway.

Roche ducked, the bastard. But the force of the throw made Iorveth spin again and he was actually starting to feel a bit queasy. Nonetheless, he held his knife up threateningly. Of course, given that he was hanging upside down with his clothes dangling around his face, it was difficult to look appropriately threatening.

“Huh, guess it’s not just the ears that are pointy,” Roche muttered as Iorveth slowly spun around to face him.

Iorveth sputtered, flushing red. That was – firstly, it was beyond inappropriate for his enemy to be talking about his ears. But secondly, was Roche referring to his– his– well, what could be seen through his hose now that the gambeson that covered it hung down his chest instead of preserving his modesty?

Iorveth wasn’t sure what the strangled noise that left him could be defined as, but it had Roche laughing again. Of all the indecencies, Iorveth certainly hadn’t been expecting his enemy to proposition him! And then to laugh about it!

“Don’t get your ears in a twist,” Roche held up his hands pacifyingly, a growing smirk on his face. 

“Stop talking about my ears!” Iorveth hollered, hating himself for losing control. Roche was surprisingly good and wrenching the control of a situation away from him, but usually Iorveth at least started out in control! Like this, he was completely off balance and entirely at a disadvantage in their face-off. It made something in his chest clench and something that must have been fury welled up inside him. 

“Relax, pointy ears.” Roche said, referencing his ears _again,_ as if Iorveth hadn’t been demeaned enough. 

When Roche approached him, he slashed his knife wildly, but between his armor impeding him, and his awkward position, it was far too easy for Roche to disarm him. Roche held his captured knife up until the sun glinted off of the blade and Iorveth found it hard to breathe.

This was _not_ how he would die. He refused to go out humiliated and helpless in front of _Roche_ of all people. 

“Stop squirming, you stupid elf,” Roche barked, grabbing his gambeson and leveling the knife against Iorveth’s throat. Iorveth froze, feeling the cool metal bite into his skin when he swallowed. “Now what should I do with you?” The dh’oine tilted his head in contemplation, slowly dragging the knife down to the hollow of Iorveth’s throat.

They stayed there like that for a long moment, eyes locked and Roche entirely in control. It made something squirm in his belly and it was probably all the blood rushing to his head, but his hose felt oddly tight. And considering the only reason his gambeson wasn’t blocking his face was because Roche had it in a firm hold, Iorveth was entirely on display – both his _obviously confused_ cock _and_ his bright red ears.

“Kill me already, dh’oine,” Iorveth challenged, honestly kind of hoping Roche would just get it over with. He understood the need to gloat over a victory, but Iorveth already wanted to crawl into the earth and never emerge. He would welcome death, if only to end this moment.

Roche licked his lips and tapped the tip of the blade against Iorveth’s collarbone once before abruptly turning away. Iorveth’s armor fell back in front of his face and he let out an outraged shout. Then his stomach lurched as the rope around his suddenly lost tension and he was falling towards the ground with a high pitched yelp. The forest floor welcomed him face-first into the dirt and leaves, his once-pristine arrows snapping as he landed on them.

Iorveth snarled, attempting to get his clothing back to rights so he could kill the son of a bitch that just stood next to the rope he’d cut, laughing at Iorveth.

“Always wondered if elves ate twigs and leaves,” Roche chuckled and Iorveth spat at his feet.

“You will die for this,” he threatened, even though he had no weapon aside from the broken arrowheads scattered under him. 

“For freeing you?” Roche smirked. “Not very neighborly of you.”

“I am _not_ your neighbor, invader!” Iorveth finally pulled himself to his feet, teeth barred.

Roche just cocked his eyebrow. “That’s gratitude for you. What would you have done if I hadn’t come along?”

The fucker was enjoying his, merriment dancing in his eyes. Iorveth’s fists clenched, fingernails digging into his palms. “I didn’t need your help! I would have freed myself!”

“Oh yeah, looked like you were making great progress on that.” Roche said. “How’s your ankle?”

Throbbing with pain, actually, but Iorveth would die before admitting it to a dh’oine. His entire face felt achy and bruised and the reality that he would likely have to limp back to his people – since Roche certainly didn’t _seem_ to be preparing to kill him – made Iorveth want to burrow down into the earth between the tree’s roots and never return.

“Fuck off, dh’oine,” Iorveth hissed.

Roche shrugged. “And here I thought elves were supposed to be well-mannered and graceful.”

Iorveth grabbed a handful of arrowheads and threw them at Roche in impotent rage. Roche watched them fall to the ground not two paces in front of Iorveth and burst into laughter. “Oh, elf, this just isn’t your day, is it?” Iorveth growled. “All right, all right, I’ll leave you to your forest. Made my fucking night as it is.”

And then Vernon fucking Roche threw him a sloppy salute, turned on his heel, and walked away, still laughing. 

Iorveth tried very hard to sink into the earth, but after several minutes in which he simply lay on his back, he was forced to admit that it wasn’t going to happen. Getting to his feet involved a horrifying amount of crawling and clawing at the tree, but finally, Iorveth recovered his bow and leaned on it heavily. It was absolutely _not_ designed to be used as a walking stick, but he would likely have to repair it or make a new one anyway.

As he hobbled slowly back to camp, the absolute _worst_ part of all of this was that the squirming heat in his belly hadn’t dissipated, and instead itched under his skin, making him want – something. Something a proud Aen Siedhe like him should never want. 

Iorveth swallowed harshly and grit his teeth, forcing his mind to focus only on the journey back to Aindeoin, the Scoia’tael base camp. Iorveth had been the one to name it, years ago, in an attempt to make it feel more like a home, more like somewhere the Aen Seidhe of old might have respected, even if it was nowhere near as glorious as the great Silver Towers they’d used to live in. Before the Conjunction of Spheres, before dh’oine had come to their shores and driven them out of their homes.

Once upon a time, Iorveth had owned a concert hall, the stone strategically carved to enhance acoustics. Playing on that stage was a magical feeling – afloat in a world that was nothing but sound and music. He had practiced with some of the most renowned musicians in elven history and played before crowds of hundreds, back when it was possible to gather hundreds of elves together without a massacre.

Still, Aindeoin had it’s charms, things he might actually miss if they recovered their lands tomorrow. Things like sleeping under the stars – though, never in winter. He’d made that mistake once, and woken up with a foot of snow on top of him – living with his brethren in close reach, avoiding cooking duty for as long as possible, and even the heights of the forest. Aindeoin was built into the forest itself, high up in the trees, using the natural infrastructure of the branches to form buildings and houses for their use. 

Of course, living in the trees meant climbing up them. Fortunately, elven ingenuity would save him from attempting to do so with his ankle in this state. Iorveth cupped a hand around his mouth and mimicked a birdcall.

At the signal, one of his guards lowered the platform that would raise Iorveth into the air. The pulley system they used was really quite simple, but it saved them hours of work transporting supplies _and_ people.

Upon seeing him, several elves jumped up to help him. 

“What happened? Were you attacked?”

Iorveth just grunted, determinedly scanning the camp until he found what he was looking for. Then he pushed his way past his concerned brethren and made a beeline for the liquor, pulling a flask out of the hands of his best tracker. Taredd sputtered as Iorveth immediately downed the whole thing, wincing in disgust as the bitter taste hit the back of his throat and burned its way down to his stomach.

“Ugh, that’s vile,” he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and passed the flask back, clapping a stunned Taredd on the back. “Do we have more?”

“You don’t drink,” Taredd pointed out meekly.

It was true, Iorveth wasn’t big on imbibing mind-altering substances. Not because he was against them – he was over thirteen hundred years old, he had tried everything under the sun at least once – but because as Commander of the Scoia’tael, he had a responsibility to his men to always be at his best.

That responsibility could go fuck itself for the rest of the evening, Iorveth decided. “Tonight, I do.” 

He caught the worried look Taredd sent over his shoulder, and Iorveth turned to face his second in command with a sigh.

“Should I ask?” Ciaran’s eyebrows climbed to his hairline as he looked over Iorveth’s rumpled appearance.

“No.” Another drink was placed in his hand and Iorveth sipped at it this time. The world already seemed hazy and slightly less awful.

“At least see Imadia,” Ciaran bit his lip in concern. “You look pretty beat up.”

Iorveth hummed, the drink making his entire miserable evening seem somehow less terrible. He let Ciaran carouse him towards their medic and she tutted as she assessed him.

“You, Iorveth, are an absolute mess.” Imadia crossed her arms.

_Tell me about it,_ he didn’t say. Imadia was an elder Aen Seidhe – the eldest in his territory – and she was entirely done with the “bullshit of these young whippersnappers,” as she put it. Iorveth wouldn’t _usually_ be labeled as one of the young ones. He had lived on the continent since before the Conjunction of the Spheres, since before the arrival of humanity. He could hardly be called young – and yet, Imadia’s shrewdness was the reason she’d stayed alive so long. Iorveth had learned to listen to her long ago, even if he resented it at times.

Times like now.

“Sooooo,” she drew the word out for as long as her breath held, “what happened?”

Iorveth growled. It was useless to lie to her. She always saw through him and enjoyed making him pay for attempted lies. “Vernon fucking Roche,” he snarled, and just thinking of the dh’oine made the hot, squirming sensation in his gut rise up towards his throat. 

“Ah, the pretty dh’oine,” she sighed, the stern woman from a moment ago suddenly lovestruck. “I do hope I’ll get to meet him at some point.”

“He’s trying to kill us,” Iorveth said, pointedly not thinking about how Roche had had a wonderful opportunity to kill him and had freed him instead. “And he’s not pretty.” Ruggedly handsome maybe, but not _pretty._

Iorveth swallowed hard. No, _not_ ruggedly handsome either. Roche was a dh’oine. Iorveth had no opinion on the beauty of dh’oine. 

Imadia ignored him. “I like him. He’s got a good voice. I can hear him yelling orders even back where I’m positioned,” which, as a medic, was supposed to be far behind their defensive line. She usually managed to edge a little closer than he’d like, but Iorveth knew better than to get between her and a patient. “Bet he has a lovely tongue.” 

Her words were as salacious as her wink and he accidentally inhaled his drink and broke down coughing. 

“All right there, dearie?” She smirked.

Iorveth made a rude hand gesture, wheezing for breath. Imadia just laughed. 

“Keep your weight off your ankle for a day and you’ll be fine.” 

“What about my face?”

“Sorry, can’t help you with that,” she winked.

Iorveth rolled his eye. “I landed on my face. Bloede hurts.”

“Landed? What exactly were you doing before that?” Her fingers gripped his chin, tilting his head from side to side, and tutted. “Light bruising. Fortunate – would be a shame to break your nose. Always thought it was one of your best features.”

Iorveth blinked at her. “My... nose?”

“Mmm. Straight and sharp.” Imadia tapped him on the nose and turned away. “You’re fine. I’d recommend a good night’s sleep, but from the drink in your hand, I’m guessing we shall be subjected to your dramatics instead.”

“I’m not dramatic.” Iorveth frowned. Then he took another drink. “But if I do start ranting, shut me up if I say anything about rabbit traps.”

Ranting was perhaps not the right word for the tirades he tended to fall into on the rare occasions he drank. It was simply that arguing and debating with his peers was one of the things he missed most from the Aen Seidhe’s heyday. Old memories of fond discussions with long-dead elves brought a faint smile to his lips.

Maybe _that_ was what drew him to Roche. The man was inventive with his insults, cunning with his wit, and scathing with his remarks. It really was quite a shame Iorveth couldn’t just sit down and have a conversation with him.

Not that he ever wanted to see Roche again. He would never live down the humiliation of this day.

Imadia laughed. “Rabbit traps. Is that what they call it these days? In my day, we just called it–”

Iorveth covered his ears. Some things just shouldn’t be heard from the mouths of elders. Especially not elders who found dh’oine weirdly attractive and knew all the dirtiest words in their oldest languages.

Touching his ears reminded him of the way Roche had constantly referred to them and his face flushed. It was downright _indecent_ for Roche to do such a thing! He couldn’t possibly mean it...right? Who just up and propositioned their sworn enemy, who they were constantly trying to kill?

Only Roche hadn’t killed him today. There had been, perhaps, times when they could have taken a lethal blow and held back, but this had been so much more than that. He had been entirely at Roche’s mercy, unable to effectively defend himself. Roche could have done _anything_ to him.

And he had let Iorveth go. Yes, Iorveth had been hurt and humiliated and perhaps a little bit something else, but he’d been _alive._ And he shouldn’t have been.

Instead of killing him, Roche had laughed at him and commented on his ears and let him go.

Did that mean that Roche truly _did_ intend to proposition him? How else could he interpret such brazen remarks about his ears. It would be like if – if he casually brought up the dh’oine’s nipples, like some sort of salacious sailor. What other intent could Roche have?

Iorveth licked his lips and desperately finished off his drink. Alcohol. He needed more of it, needed to not be thinking about dh’oine or propositions or Roche.

Especially Roche.

“I need a drink,” he announced, and proceeded to make no move to rise. 

“I think that’s the opposite of what you need,” Imadia tsked. Nonetheless, she reached into her medicine bad and pulled out a vial of herbs.

Iorveth’s eyes lit up, leaning forward. He so rarely indulged, but when he did, there was no better combination than Imadia’s herbs and a drink. It brought back memories of a time before strife with the dh’oine – though not before strife with dwarves. They were only very recent allies, in the grand scheme of things – but rather than overwhelming him, the herbs kept the memories light and energizing, bolstering him instead of dragging him down. It was one of the few times he told tales of the old days, the days when elves had lived in peace.

That was probably why Kythaela cleared her throat from the entryway. “Got you another drink, sir.”

Iorveth accepted with a sigh. “You don’t have to call me sir, you know.”

“Yes sir,” she grinned.

Kythaela and the other younger elves were always eager to hear stories of the old days. He wasn’t sure what was so great about his stories when there were a handful of others who had been there too and were far more eager to talk about it. Especially because his stories often digressed into rants about the cultural significance of holy relicts that no longer existed.

His rants did not tend to be kind to dh’oine. Maybe that was what they liked. He wasn’t sure why that made something in his chest twinge, but he didn’t like it.

Iorveth took another drink, and when Imadia offered him a smoke, he eagerly imbibed. 

The last thing he remembered was Ciaran’s hazel eyes looking worriedly up at him as he accepted another drink.

## Coda: The Blue Stripes

When the Bossman returned to camp after a scouting mission into the forest, Finch wasn’t the only one to stare after him in surprise. Whistling merrily, Bossman picked up the pile of paperwork that they’d all taken turns nudging closer to the fire to avoid doing it, and actually sat down and started filling it out with a grin.

“Sir,” Silas, the newbie of the crew – still green behind the ears, but an impressive tactician – approached the Bossman’s temporary desk (actually a rock and a tree stump). “Is everything okay? Did anything happen?”

“Nothing to report,” Bossman shook his head, smile still curling his lips. It was weird. Bossman wore gruff and unhappy a lot more easily than – delight? Happiness? For a man with permanent frown lines, the grin made him look younger, _kinder._ It made Finch’s fingers ache for his crossbow, for the world that came with it, where the only thing that mattered was his aim and who he was targeting. He grabbed a branch off the ground and headed over to the campfire, taking a seat next to Thirteen. Thirteen immediately offered him the bottle they were all sharing and Finch took a small sip, feeling the burn all the way down. 

The Blue Stripes made their own liquor and it was _strong._

“Whatcha carving this time?” Thirteen asked, knocking his knee against Finch’s. 

Finch shrugged. He didn’t really carve with an idea in mind – he just needed to do something with his hands. Peeling away slow curls of wood was a good way to do that, and it still left him the attention to follow the conversation around him.

“I can’t be the only one thinking it,” Ves, Bossman’s Second said, taking a generous swig when the bottle came to her.

“Commander Roche definitely got laid, right? Why else would he be so happy?” Fenn looked like yule had come early. No doubt he would soon propose placing bets on what Bossman had gotten up to.

“He wouldn’t!” Silas hissed. “He was on duty!”

Finch – and several others, he noticed – determinedly avoided Silas’s gaze.

“Sooooo,” PT dragged the word out in the awkward silence. “Who do we think it was?”

“Had to be an elf, didn’t it?”

“Maybe a dwarf? Scoia’tael’s been recruiting more o’ them lately.”

“Why’re we assuming he went to the forest? Could’ve gone to the whorehouse,” Thirteen stole the bottle back and guzzled it. 

“You all realize I can hear you, right?” Bossman asked, looking over at them with a raised eyebrow. His makeshift desk was a handful of paces away from the fire, and they had been making no attempt to lower their voices.

“No one asked you,” Ves waved her hand. She leaned in towards the fire as if sharing a secret, and said loudly, “Bet Roche got fucked by a leshen. That’d bring a grin to his sour puss.”

Bossman snorted loudly, shook his head almost fondly, and went back to his paperwork, still whistling idly. 

“I bet he’s got a secret lover,” Shorty winked. “Someone serious.”

“Oooooh, not a bad idea, Shorty,” Fenn’s grin made him look like he was high on fisstech. He was hurriedly writing down the betting options in his notebook. “All right! Let’s say... buy in is 20 orens. Plaaaaaaace your bets!” He threw his hands wide in a dramatic gesture and almost took out Thirteen’s eye with his pencil.

Finch bet 40 on the secret lover theory, mostly because he wanted to believe _one_ of them was getting some on the regular. Shorty didn’t count; he may be happily married, but his wife had also let him name _all_ sixteen of their children after troop divisions. Finch loved the little rascals – and not just because Foxtrot said he was the best uncle – but personally, he was looking for a _sensible_ woman. 

They spent the evening laughing and poking fun at the Bossman as they finished off three bottles of Thirtheen’s home brew. All the while, Bossman worked steadily through their backlog of paperwork and whistled a jaunty tune.

Maybe he really was getting laid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Want to see more with the Blue Stripes? Check out my fic [Pride of Temeria](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25565440).  
> Also, come hang out with me on [tumblr](https://bard-llama.tumblr.com/) and check out my [Witcher Rare Pair discord.](https://discord.gg/BsT3ckx)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Iorveth spends far too much time thinking about Roche's proposition and comes to a decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning that this chapter includes a bit of a dubcon/noncon fantasy for a few paragraphs. It starts near the end of the chapter with "What if...what if Roche _hadn’t_ let him go?" and ends at "Before he could think more about that..."  
> Also, raised the rating, because Iorveth decided to have some fun.
> 
> Elder Speech:  
> Dh’oine = Elder Speech for Human  
> Bloede = expletive along the lines of stupid/silly/fucking i.e. Bloede Dh’oine = Fucking Human  
> Aindeoin = taken from the Scottish Gaelic word for spite, a dh ’aindeoin, according to Google.

When Iorveth awoke from his little bender, his mouth tasted like feet, his head was pounding, and attempting to open his eye just led to sharp spikes of sunlight drilling into it.

Suddenly it was very easy to remember why he usually didn’t drink these days. Aside from his responsibility to his men, of course. But it had been a long time since he’d imbibed regularly and his tolerance reflected that. In other words, it was nonexistent. And he vaguely remembered drinking _a lot._

Iorveth groaned piteously, and someone cleared their throat next to him and pressed a waterskin to his mouth. He drank greedily, not even bothering to open his eye. There were two people likely to take care of him, and Imadia would have said something scathing by now. That meant that the gentle hand that stroked over his hair belonged to Ciaran. He wasn’t wearing his bandana, which likely also meant that Ciaran had put him to bed and watched over him. 

“Thank you,” he rasped after Ciaran took the waterskin away.

“What happened to set you off?”

“Ah.” Iorveth flushed, remembering _exactly_ what had set him off. Or rather, _who._ But he couldn’t tell Ciaran that. “I was careless, got caught in a hunter’s trap,” he said instead, shame coloring his words as he thought back on the humiliating encounter.

“Oh.” Ciaran was silent for a long moment and Iorveth squinted his eye open. His friend had his lips pressed tightly together, clearly holding back laughter.

“Ugh,” Iorveth covered his face with his hands. “If you’re going to laugh, you owe me another drink. Maybe it’ll make this headache bearable.”

“You’re in luck,” Ciaran chuckled. “Imadia left you a tonic.” He uncorked something noxious smelling and helped Iorveth struggle upright. Iorveth braced himself – knowing Imadia, the tonic would work miracles, but likely taste like death. She liked to teach him lessons by doing things like that.

He was right. Swallowing the tonic down as quickly as possible did not stop him from wishing he could claw out his tongue. But, after a few minutes had passed, he did have to admit that he felt better. Well enough to venture out of bed, anyway.

“What did I do, anyway?” Iorveth asked, not truly sure he wanted to know. If he’d actually said something incriminating about Roche, Ciaran would have already brought it up. 

“You told a lot of stories about what an amazing debater you are,” Ciaran said, threads of laughter still in his voice. “Apparently it was very important that we all know that you once defeated Filavandrel.”

“And I was right,” Iorveth couldn’t help pointing out. Filavandrel may be respected as a leader of elves in Dol Blathanna, but he was equally well known for his eloquence. Defeating him was a point of personal pride.

Not that those sorts of victories mattered anymore. But it was a good memory, one that brought a smile to his face. 

“When you’re ready,” Ciaran said, rolling his eyes, “Sylvar had an idea he wants to run by you.”

“Oh?”

Ciaran nodded. “I’ll let him share the details, but I think it has merit, if we plan well. Striking outside of our usual territory will throw off those damn Blue Stripes, too.” He stepped over to the door and opened it for the young elf.

“Sir,” he nodded, a smirk curling the corner of his lips. Iorveth sighed. He should have know Kythaela’s insistence on calling him sir would spread.

“Tell me about your idea.”

Sylvar eagerly stepped forward, unrolling a map over his table. “I think we should hit the supply caravan to Ellander.”

Iorveth cocked his eyebrow. Ellander lay a short distance from the western edge of the Scoia’tael’s forest. The small city was home to a Temeria army base, three taverns, two whorehouses, and the Temple of Melitele, where priestesses tended to the wounded and weary. “Their supplies come overland, from Vizima.” Which was further to the west and would require them to circle around Ellander without the cover of the forest.

“Usually, yes sir. But apparently there was a recent landslide on the road from Vizima, so they’re sending supplies by ship, across the Yaruga. That means they have to come ashore not too far from our borders. We can hit them before they ever realize there’s anything to fear.”

“Hmm,” Iorveth hummed, thinking it over. They did need new supplies badly. And this time, he hoped the army sent their men better tasting rations. “When?”

“Our spies report that the ship should arrive in three days,” Ciaran answered. “That gives us three days to plan this carefully.”

Of course, it also meant three days for someone to leak their plans. Not that Iorveth thought any of his men were traitors, but Roche had his ways of getting information. Even if no one sold them out, they would probably encounter the Blue Stripes.

That was fine. He could plan for the Blue Stripes. He just wished he could plan for _Roche_ outside of anticipating his attacks.

* * *

Iorveth spent the days leading up to their raid thinking about Roche. More specifically, thinking about how to defeat Roche. Except that naturally turned into thinking about how Roche could have killed him and didn’t, and that led to thinking about the way that Roche had talked about his ears and how his body had gotten...confused. He knew it was confusion because there was no way he could be feeling _interest_ in the dh’oine. 

He just – wanted to understand Roche, that was all. It had been a long time since he’d found a worthy debate opponent and Roche showed signs of having a not-disappointing intellect. His body had just confused his interest in knowing Roche for, well, for _knowing_ Roche.

It didn’t help that Roche had propositioned him. He never would have even thought of Roche in that context if the other hadn’t started it. But now that his brain had gone there, he started _thinking_ about it. And thinking about it meant that he desperately, desperately wanted to go on another bender until he could stop thinking.

But he had a responsibility to the Scoia’tael and he would not fail them. Even if it meant being stuck with thoughts of what a dh’oine – what _Roche_ – might be like in bed.

If he accepted. Which of course, he never would. Their prior encounter had clearly been a fluke, a strange event that would never be replicated. The next time the met, Roche would probably pretend the whole thing had never happened.

Except to humiliate Iorveth, if he wanted to. After all, _he_ didn’t know that Iorveth’s body had only been confused. But Roche couldn’t possible actually _want_ him. Roche hunted nonhumans; his proposition had clearly been a mistake.

Which was what Iorveth wanted. Of course it was. There was no part of him that felt a little pleased to be the subject of desire for someone again. Not that he was without company when he craved it, but Aen Seidhe valued beauty and his was ruined.

The most common response he’d heard after he lost his eye was, “what a shame.” Iorveth had been considered quite beautiful once, but elves valued aesthetics, and even if Iorveth’s scar weren’t horrific and grotesque, the asymmetry of it would always be considered unpleasant to the eye.

It wasn’t so bad these days, around the Scoia’tael. They were all warriors, they understood scars. They were shameful necessities of the life they fought for.

Still, there was a reason very few people ever saw Iorveth without his bandana on. Even that couldn’t cover everything, but it hid the worst of it, the parts that made faces contort in disgust before people regained control of themselves. Ciaran and Imadia were the only two he trusted enough to see the true horror he was, and even they hadn’t been able to help reacting. He didn’t blame them – he couldn’t stand to look himself in the mirror either – but it was an important reminder. No one could ever want him, not truly.

But gods, it would be nice to actually be wanted, to be someone considered worthy of wooing or courting. Not that he had time for romance, nor would he _ever_ want it with Roche of all people. But it would be nice.

“Almost time.” Ciaran’s voice startled him and again, Iorveth cursed himself for getting lost in thought.

“Wait for my signal,” he ordered. Ciaran handed him a spyglass and Iorveth did a quick check that his people were where they were supposed to be. Then he turned to small caravan below that was slowly loading supplies from the ship. They would wait until the caravan was fully loaded – all the easier to get away with the highest quantity of supplies – and their attack strategy was two-pronged. First, they had to lure out the Blue Stripes. Roche would likely have supplemented his crew with men from Ellander’s army base, so all of Iorveth’s people were here for this operation. If they failed, it would be a massacre.

But they wouldn’t fail. Because Iorveth _knew_ Roche would be coming, knew Roche would attack them. Which meant he’d just needed to figure out how to outmaneuver one man instead of unpredictable guards. 

It would almost be fun, if it weren’t for the stakes.

Iorveth signaled Maeral to take her five man squad to attack the boat, as if the supplies hadn’t already been unloaded. Their job was the most dangerous – bait for the Blue Stripes. It was likely more than one of them wouldn’t return, but he trusted Maeral with this command, trusted her to fight with everything she had to return home. She was one of his youngest commanders, but Iorveth hadn’t managed to win a chess match against her in half a decade. She understood tactics and strategy and she looked at the whole field in a way Iorveth had never been able to.

Maeral attacked, her squad engaging the guards around the makeshift dock. It took only a few long heartbeats of waiting before Roche did the expected – surrounded Maerel’s squad and announced his presence.

Now It was Iorveth’s turn. He had thirty soldiers surrounding the Blue Stripes and each had orders to keep the fighting as contained to the makeshift dock as possible. Then, while everyone was busy, Ciaran would take over the caravan with his squad and deliver it to Aindeoin. It was a good plan, and the butterflies in Iorveth’s stomach felt more like anticipation than nerves.

Nonetheless, he could admit that he was just a little bit worried about how his first meeting with Roche would go. What if the dh’oine brought up their last meeting? Iorveth clenched his fists and took a deep breath, pulling his mind back on task.

Then he gave the signal to attack and he leapt out of the tree, landing on a soldier and riding him to the ground. He jumped towards Roche, who caught his blade at the last minute, falling to one knee from the impact.

Iorveth licked his lips, already feeling the adrenaline coursing through his veins in the way his heartbeat was thudding rapidly, the way all of his focus seemed to narrow down to Roche.

“How?” Roche demanded, “how did you know we would be lying in wait!?”

Iorveth smirked. “It’s you. Of course you’d be here.” Roche actually seemed taken aback by that. Iorveth should have used the opening to attack, but he felt like gloating. “Expected me to underestimate you?”

Roche’s mouth slowly twisted into a grin. “I should have known better.” He pushed forward off of his knee, thrusting his sword towards Iorveth’s face. 

It was easy enough to bat the blade aside, and now they were truly fighting and Iorveth’s grin was probably just as feral as Roche’s. 

“Guess those pointy ears are sharper than I thought,” Roche said and Iorveth almost stumbled on his next step. “And here I thought we’d managed to get intel past you.”

Nearby, Sylvar cut down his opponent and rounded on Roche. “You _dare_ speak to our leader in such vulgar terms!?”

Iorveth could feel his ears growing hot as he flushed. Oh gods, could this get any worse?

Roche’s second in command, Ves, dove to intercept Sylvar while Roche just looked baffled.

“I didn’t even use a good insult,” he frowned, and the weight of his sword against Iorveth’s own shifted. Iorveth was ready to block, but Roche just seemed to be adjusting his grip. Iorveth’s men closed in around them, pushing the Blue Stripes back, away from where Ciaran was already making off with their haul.

Roche didn’t seem to recognize that, though, instead looking at Iorveth through narrowed eyes. “Didn’t know your ears could turn that red,” he said casually, as if such a statement weren’t _wildly_ out of place on a battlefield.

Iorveth made a small noise, eyes wide and something unfamiliar coiling in his gut. Horror and humiliation, certainly, but there was also a part of him that was _pleased_ that Roche apparently intended his proposition, that Roche wanted _him._

All the elves in earshot let out near-simultaneous scandalized gasps that almost got them killed and Iorveth could feel his face flushing bright red. This was a disaster that he had _not_ signed up to deal with today.

And even though his men had the advantage, even though they’d pushed the Blue Stripes back, nearly cornered them, Iorveth found himself giving the signal to fall back. He wasn’t running away – it was simply strategic to call for a retreat at this point. 

The last thing he heard before he left the battlefield behind was Roche grumbling about pointy ears and confusing strategies.

Despite leaving the battle earlier than planned, they had managed to keep the Blue Stripes distracted for long enough for Ciaran and the caravan to make it into the forest.

Thank the gods for that, because Iorveth never would have forgiven himself otherwise. Though, he wasn’t sure it mattered whether he forgave himself, because he was already contemplating burying himself in the forest somewhere to never be seen again.

“The nerve of that whoreson!” Sylvar ranted far too loudly, exposing Iorveth’s humiliation to even more elves. 

Rinn, his favorite little spy, smacked Sylvar over the head and held a finger up to her lips.

“She’s telling you to shut up,” Kythaela pointed out helpfully.

Actually, if Rinn chose to spoke, it would probably be a lot more impolite than that. But Iorveth was the only one she felt comfortable enough to speak around, except for Imadia on rare occasion. 

Still, she was right. The last thing he wanted was for word to spread about Roche’s crude words. Iorveth could feel himself blushing just at the thought.

Sylvar grumbled the rest of the way back to Aindeoin, but he didn’t immediately start shouting about Iorveth’s humiliation, so that was something. 

“Let’s get a drink,” Kythaela slipped her arm through Sylvar’s and bodily dragged him away. Iorveth smiled at the apologetic look she sent him and followed behind at a more sedate pace. 

A short time later, as his Scoia’tael sat around the campfires – built in special stone pits to prevent the trees from catching alight – feasting and drinking, Iorveth found himself strangely unable to adjust to the mood. They had plentiful supplies now and had achieved a victory against the Blue Stripes with minimal losses. He should be as lighthearted and jovial as his brethren who chattered and laughed around him. But he couldn’t stop thinking about earlier’s humiliation, about the way he’d been propositioned in front of his men and the way he’d visibly reacted, bright red for anyone to see. 

Instead of drowning himself in drink the way he had a few days before, Iorveth found himself slowly sipping wine as he stood on the outskirts of the feast, leaning against the tree trunk their dining hall was built into. He spotted Rinn sitting on a branch above the feast and smiled to himself. She always did prefer her own company over that of others.

He had been the one to find her, all those years ago. Iorveth had killed a group of dh’oine standing over the bodies of elves and only after the fact had he realized that one of the elves still lived. 

Rinn had been completely mute at that point. She was strong willed and bounced back from tragedy fairly quickly, but her speech had not returned for years. And even now, she preferred silence, though he wasn’t sure how much of that was trouble speaking versus not wanting to bother. He wouldn’t be entirely surprised if it was the latter, but then, he sometimes wished he could avoid speaking.

Rinn noticed him watching and waved at him. Then, even though he was staring right at her, he wasn’t quite sure how she managed to disappear. It was a special talent of hers, to go unnoticed.

Originally, he hadn’t wanted her to join the Scoia’tael. She had been young when he found her, about a decade under the age of majority for an elf, and while Iorveth had trouble understanding how some people could choose _not_ to fight, he did believe that their people deserved to grow up in peace. So he’d sent her to Vergen, the Dwarven city in Upper Aedirn where they sent all refugees who came to the Scoia’tael for help. It wasn’t a paradise, and dwarves and elves had longstanding differences, but it was still a better city than one run by humans.

Rinn had gone to Vergen. He’d sent her multiple times, in fact. But somehow, she kept popping back up in Aindeoin and Iorveth had never been able to figure out how. After the fourth time, he’d decided that if she was determined to be here, he would put those skills to use.

Of course, with her not speaking to anyone – including him, at the time, as she had still been learning hand signs, though she managed to get her will across quite well without using words at all – they’d had to get inventive on how she could communicate the intel that she picked up hanging around where no sensible person would. 

He still didn’t know how she’d gotten inside Ellander’s army barracks, and admittedly, he didn’t know what he would do with the detailed sketch of the Blue Stripes’ cots, but hey, intel was intel. And there were times that a picture of the situation was much more useful than a verbal report. Such as when you realized that your enemies weren’t just comrades, but family. 

It was in the way Rinn drew them sitting around the campfire together or sleeping in a huddle in the cold, never aware of their silent observer determinedly putting their likeness to paper. The Blue Stripes were so clearly more than just people who fought side by side. They _cared_ about each other. 

A realization like that one was valuable. It meant that the team had a weakness that could be exploited. If they cared about each other, then they could be used as leverage against each other.

Only Iorveth had immediately known it wouldn’t work. Because he knew Roche, even if he didn’t _know_ the dh’oine, and Roche was like him. Roche was a man who would do what he had to, even if it destroyed him.

If Iorveth had shared what he’d seen in Rinn’s drawings with Ciaran, his second in command would want them to kidnap one of the commandos, to use them as a hostage.

But Roche would not let himself be controlled like that. If Iorveth tried, Roche would shoot him _through_ his dh’oine comrade if he had to. Because Roche _wasn’t_ a good man, just like Iorveth wasn’t. Both of them would sacrifice _everything_ for their cause. It was just a shame their two causes were opposed.

So Iorveth had filed Rinn’s sketches of the Blue Stripes away without ever sharing what he’d seen. It wasn’t a realization anyone else was likely to make. Aside from Rinn and a few other choice spies, Iorveth’s men only ever saw the Blue Stripes in the midst of battle. And while the Blue Stripes watched each other’s backs, they were professionals. 

But Iorveth had spies for a reason. It was his job to learn everything he could about his enemies. It was also his job to _use_ that intel, but the truth was, he was scared of what might happen if he did. He didn’t want his fight with Roche to turn into a fight of whose morals could sink lower.

Iorveth was scared because he knew he would do it. When backed into a corner, there was very little he _wouldn’t_ do for the Scoia’tael, for the cause of a free elven state. He wasn’t sure there was a limit to the depths he would sink to. He already knew that he would sacrifice his people if he had to – that’s what it meant to order his men to play bait – and he had once believed that he would never kill another elf.

Iorveth laughed bitterly to himself. Once upon a time, he’d genuinely thought he’d never resort to violence. 

_How the mighty have fallen,_ those he once knew might have said. But he was still alive while they lay dead, their ideals small defense in the face of human hatred, so he rather thought his position spoke for itself. 

That was how most recruits came to the Scoia’tael – because someone they knew had finally been beaten beyond what they could take, and they were tired and scared of the dh’oine mobs that came with their pitchforks and swords and left the land running red with blood. 

Iorveth glanced around the dining hall, noting the scars and injuries on his comrades, all caused by dh’oine. There wasn’t a Scoia’tael without a scar, wasn’t a one of them who hadn’t been damaged by the dh’oine and their hatred.

Some more so than others. That had been how he’d first heard of Sylvar – the entire camp had been gossiping about how someone actually had worse scars than Iorveth. Not to his face, of course. But near enough that Iorveth had easily heard.

Few elves had even seen how bad his scars truly were, but Iorveth had to admit that they were still right – Sylvar’s were worse. There was scarcely any skin that wasn’t distorted from the burn scars that covered most of his body. 

Dh’oine had been responsible, of course. Sylvar and his mother had lived peacefully in Ellander, more or less avoiding trouble with dh’oine. Until the day a mob broke into their house, beat Sylvar half to death, and burned the building to the ground.

Sylvar had been lucky. He’d escaped. Barely.

His mother hadn’t been so fortunate. But then, Iorveth reflected, most of the younger elves had joined the Scoia’tael _because_ they wanted vengeance against the dh’oine who had killed their parents.

Or used them. Taredd’s parents had been better off living under human rule than most. As affluent traders, money opened what doors their race barred. But dh’oine greed was a constant, and eventually, they decided they didn’t want _elves_ to be prosperous. And if they got rid of the elves, well, then there was all that coin, just for the taking.

Iorveth always thought his hatred of humanity couldn’t get any deeper, but every time a new child – because they were children, not yet even a century of life! – joined the Scoia’tael, it burned that much brighter.

He tried to remind himself that there _were_ good dh’oine out there. Supposedly.

The problem was, the only example he could think of was Vernon Roche, and he could hardly be called good when he had so much blood on his hands.

But then, so did Iorveth. 

Perhaps that was why he wished he could have a conversation with Roche. They were, in many ways, very similar, and yet so very, very different. Such contrast practically guaranteed an interesting debate.

If it were possible to just – not set aside, because the racism elves faced could never just be set aside, but if they could meet without trying to kill each other. To just talk. Well, probably fight, but _verbal_ fighting, the kind Iorveth used to have mastered, the kind that had once been the only kind of fighting he’d done.

That had been a long time ago now.

He didn’t regret doing what he had to. But he was just so _tired._ Iorveth wished there were somewhere he could go where he could leave the fighting at the door. Somewhere where he could talk to Roche and receive an answer rather than an attack.

Except Roche hadn’t attacked him that day in the forest. The dh’oine had threatened him, certainly, but even after Iorveth had been released, Roche had made no move towards his sword. Iorveth himself had been the one to attack, even if it had been a pathetic attempt. His embarrassment had been too overwhelming at the time, but now, now he wondered if Roche choosing not to attack was as much of an offer as his crass remarks.

Maybe...maybe it would be worth taking him up on it? Just for a conversation, not for sex. Iorveth had no interest in sex with a dh’oine.

So why had being helpless in Roche’s grasp made him hot and squirmy that day in the forest? Why had his ears flushed so red and why had his cock reacted when Roche had dragged his dagger ever so delicately over his throat?

Iorveth shivered and cleared his throat. He really shouldn’t be thinking about the way his confused body had reacted. _Was_ reacting.

He shifted uncomfortably, dearly grateful that his gambeson and mail hid the _exact_ way his body was reacting. His body was obviously still confused, because there was nothing that he should find appealing about being helpless under Roche’s blade.

Iorveth swallowed and bit his lip. Perhaps he should take this line of thinking somewhere more private, just in case his body continued to get the wrong idea.

Or, part of his mind whispered, he could stay here. There was no need to draw attention to himself by leaving early and that little curl of humiliation in his belly at the idea that someone could find out made him shift and clench around nothing. It was uncomfortably good, the way the shame and lust and general confusion Roche inspired fizzled together in his stomach and made him sensitive.

Iorveth focused on breathing evenly even as every shift of his weight and every squeeze of his thighs sent shivers of pleasure through his body. His hose was soaked with wetness from his cunt and Iorveth bit his lip, feeling his cock twitch at the twinge of pain.

What would sex with a dh’oine like Roche even be like? Iorveth couldn’t see it being gentle, but he liked a little bit of roughness himself. And thinking back on their encounter in the woods when Iorveth had been caught – Roche had been pretty good at taking charge, too. Iorveth hadn’t been aware that he was interested in that, but something about Roche standing over him, holding Iorveth’s own knife to his throat…

Iorveth shuddered, then cleared his throat and looked around wildly to make sure no one noticed.

What if...what if Roche _hadn’t_ let him go? What if the Blue Stripes commander had kept that knife pressed against the hollow of Iorveth’s collarbone? Iorveth licked his lips, imagining what might have happened if Vernon Roche were an entirely different kind of man. The kind of man who would force Iorveth’s mouth open and slide his cock inside.

What would he taste like? Humans were warmer than elves in general, and their cocks looked so strange in comparison. What would it feel like on his tongue? In the back of his throat? Inside him?

Before it could escape his lips, Iorveth swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth just from the thought of being filled with a cock and chased it down with a gulp of wine for good measure. 

Roche could have done anything to him with Iorveth tied up and hanging like that, and Iorveth found himself wishing that Roche _had,_ that he’d cupped Iorveth through his hose, maybe ripped it open to slip fingers inside his cunt while Iorveth sucked desperately. The smell of Roche would overwhelm him like that and for the first time, Iorveth _wanted_ that, wanted a dh’oine’s scent to cover him.

Before he could think more about that, Ciaran broke away from a group of young elves and approached him. Iorveth hastily swallowed more wine, trying to pull himself together.

“Iorveth,” Ciaran called, reaching out to clap Iorveth on the shoulder. There was no part of Iorveth that wondered how differently Roche’s hand would feel. “Are you okay? Sylvar mentioned that that bloede dh’oine was crude and vile, as dh’oine so often are.” 

Iorveth barely noticed the disgust pulling at Ciaran’s face, instead thinking about exactly how crude and vile Roche had been, talking about his ears in front of his men. Roche had seemed quite fixated on his ears, actually, and he wondered what the dh’oine’s rough hands would feel like against him. What would it feel like to have the dh’oine hot and solid on his tongue while Roche stroked his ears? Gods, Iorveth wouldn’t even need to be touched further; he could come just like that.

He _was_ coming just like that, Iorveth realized with a stifled gasp, biting down hard on his tongue to hold back any noises and focusing all his being on _not showing it_. As he utterly ruined his hose, Iorveth was forced to lean his weight into the tree behind him lest his trembling legs collapse under him.

It shouldn’t have felt as good as it did.

Ciaran frowned at him. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to embarrass you. I just wanted to check and make sure you were okay. The dh’oine didn’t _try_ anything, did he?”

It took all of Iorveth’s concentration to form words. “No,” he rasped. _More’s the pity._

Gods, his face and ears must be terribly red from the way Ciaran was looking at him and a curl of shame twisted through his pleasure. Instead of detracting from the his enjoyment, it made the sensation _more,_ and Iorveth could feel the way his shoulders loosened, the slight headache that he hadn’t even noticed dissipating.

“Good,” Ciaran said. “And I’m sorry that happened. I hope you know it’s not a reflection on you – we all know dh’oine are horny for anything that moves.”

“Mmm,” Iorveth managed a small reassuring smile and Ciaran seemed to accept it, raising his glass in a quick salute and then heading back into the thick of the festivities.

Iorveth chewed on Ciaran’s comment for a moment, wondering why it bothered him. It was true, dh’oine would fuck literally anything.

But Roche didn’t want anything. He’d propositioned _Iorveth._ Roche hadn’t commented on anyone else’s ears or dragged a knife slowly down anyone else’s throat or – well, really, Roche hadn’t paid much attention to anyone else at all, had he?

Iorveth bit his lip as something warm swelled in his chest. Maybe...maybe he _should_ accept Roche’s offer.

What was the worst that could happen?

## Coda: Iorveth and the Dragon

_Here,_ Rinn signed as she stepped into Iorveth’s office. She dropped a sketch on his desk, but unlike her usual reports, this scene was clearly not from reality. In fact, it appeared to be– 

“A dragon?” A smile pulled at Iorveth’s lips. Unlike dh’oine, elves saw dragons as the beautiful creatures they were. There had never been _elven_ dragon hunters.

_It’s you,_ Rinn grinned. _See, he’s wearing your bandana!_

Indeed, the detailed charcoal dragon _did_ appear to be wearing a bandana. Looking closer, Iorveth could even see the edge of a scar going down the dragon’s snout. The dragon’s wings were spread in a silhouette that reminded Iorveth of his compound bow.

“It’s amazing,” Iorveth whispered, eyes roving across the sketch to take in all the details. “Why a dragon?”

Rinn shrugged. _Dragons are cool._

Well, he couldn’t argue with that.

“Thank you,” he smiled widely at her. “I will treasure it.”

Rinn beamed at him before turning and jumping out the window. Considering his office was the highest point in Aindeoin, the way she easily jumped from branch to branch until vanishing from sight was quite impressive.

But not as impressive as Dragon Iorveth. He wondered if he could get it framed.

* * *

Years later, after Iorveth discovered Saskia’s true form, he showed her the picture Rinn had drawn him. She was impressed by how detailed the dragon was and praised Rinn’s skill. 

That had been the moment Iorveth had decided to follow her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rinn was created by the wonderful [XxWanderlustxX](https://archiveofourown.org/users/XxWanderlustxX/pseuds/XxWanderlustxX). Thanks for letting me use her!


End file.
